Stop all the Clocks
by newspapercabs
Summary: The aftermath of loss. Reese/Finch. Major character death!


_Disclaimer:_ I don't own anything.**  
**_  
A/N:_ Umm...I am _so _sorry. The poem is called, "Stop all the Clocks" by W.H. Auden.

**Warning:** Major character death!

_Pairing:_ Reese/Finch

* * *

**Stop all the Clocks**

**.**

_Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone_

He held the cooling, limp body in his arms, his eyes dangerous and broken; the bodies of those who had taken his partner (his friend, his _lover_) lay sprawled around him. Their kneecaps were just fine; the same couldn't be said for the skulls.

It was Carter and Fusco who had found him hours later. He still refused to release Finch from his embrace, holding his partner in his arms throughout the car ride. It didn't matter where they took him. Nothing mattered anymore.

**.**

_Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone_

The Machine continued to send Reese the irrelevant numbers and John couldn't help but continue to work; Finch would never forgive him if he had simply walked away.

But this time it was Carter and Fusco on the other line of his earpiece. Occasionally he would begin to ring Finch only to remember he was longer on the other end of the line that he never would be again.

It filled Reese with a cold, helpless despair; he would feel the broken fire of rage flare through his limbs, tempting him to lose himself in vicious acts of violence, to forgo the kneecaps and simply twist the criminals bones in his hands until they broke, but _no_ Finch wouldn't have approved, if he did Finch will (_would_) look at him with fear and disapproval darkening his pale eyes.

Reese felt his heart grow cold at the thought.

The criminals lived to be tried. Finch had once more, stayed his hand.

They should be grateful.

**.**

_Silence the pianos with a muffled drum_

Reese slept in the library, surrounded by whispers of paper and the smell of dust and old circuitry. It was the closest thing he had left of Harold; his computers remained untouched, their monitors' dark and covered with a plastic sheet.

Harold would hate to find dust on his beloved computers.

Reese had made himself a den in the corner, where he had a clear view of the main area and simply watched the empty room. He didn't bother drinking; alcohol didn't do anything for him anymore.

**.**

_Bring out the coffin let the mourners come_

Sometimes in between the quiet of dawn, when the darkness still lingered and the sun was still hiding behind the skyscrapers, sometimes if he listened hard enough he could hear the soft _clack-clack-clack _of computer keys. Closing his eyes he allowed the darkness to come, letting the sound echo comfortingly in his ears.

Every morning he struggled to get the sound to stay, his stomach coiling into desperate knots, willing the sun to stay away, but as the first rays of light flooded through the wide, grimy windows, the sound would, as always, fade away.

Empty. Silent.

It was unbearable.

How he would do anything to get that sound to return.

**.**

_Let the airplanes circle moaning overhead, scribbling on the sky the message: He is dead_

It seemed fitting and horribly ironic that he had found Finch's nest after he had died. The apartment wasn't his home anymore than any of the apartments he owned across the city (probably the country to). As anything Harold had owned, it was furnished with subtle elegance and no clutter, the only thing personal that he found was the row of first-edition books sitting undisturbed on the bookshelf pressed against the wall.

There were no pictures displayed on the coffee tables nor hung up on the plain, white walls, but Reese had found what he had been looking for: suits and his collection of ties.

With careful, reverent hands he pulled one from its hanger, feeling the custom-made fabric slide beautifully between his hands; he rubbed the suit with his thumbs, imagining the warmth of Harold's skin that had always bled through his three-piece suits, remembering his frustrated humor the first time he had tried to take it off the first time they had made love.

His hands had been shaking, his fingers struggling with those damnable buttons. Harold had watched him with aroused amusement before he had moved to help; his thin lips pulling into a soft, fond smile as both their clothes had fallen away, taking away the last of their barriers.

Closing his eyes, he brought the suit to his nose and inhaled deeply and he felt something painful and tight loosen and throb at the familiar scent, masculine and soft with the faded scent of green tea and old circuitry filling his nose.

The smell had always been strongest at the juncture of his neck, allowing him to slink up behind him, wrapping his arms around him and burrowing into his neck, inhaling deeply, smiling against his shoulder when Harold scolded him in that dry, indifferent tone of his. (_"Mr. Reese, now _really_ isn't the time."_)

Pulling his face away from the fabric he found tears burning trails down his cheeks, each shuddering gasp racking his chest with pain, his knees falling weak, forcing him to lean against the wall before sliding down to the floor, clutching the suit to his chest.

Never again. He would never hold Harold again, never kiss him, never get scolded by him, and never hear him say his name with such tender exasperation again. Never, never, _never_.

The sobs that crawled up his throat refused to be muffled or silenced, his throat aching, throbbing from the pain, his chest feeling as if he had just swallowed a handful of razorblades, making each rattling breath too loud, exhausting and painful.

He didn't bother picking himself up from the ground; he remained unmoving in the dark shadows of Harold's closet, his body bowed like a broken man, clinging to an empty suit that offered nothing more than fresh reminders and faded scents.

**.**

_Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves, let the traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves_

Carter followed him after he had almost gotten himself killed during their latest number. He stopped in the nearby alleyway where no one would see or hear them (besides the feral cats hiding in the dumpsters); he hadn't been about to lead Carter back to the library.

"This has to stop John," helpless pain laced every word, worry wrinkling her brows.

He tried pulling his lips into a cocky, cat-like smile, but the expression fell short and his smile looked broken instead, "I don't know what you mean." Even his voice sounded tired.

Anger and frustration and sorrow chased through her expression, a fierce frown pulling at her lips, "You know damn well what I mean John! These unnecessary risks your taking; its like you're asking to be killed—" she cut herself off with a sharp gasp, looking at him as if she had figured him out.

His expression remained different, his iron-gray eyes boring into her own. She didn't know _anything_.

He watched as sorrow and understanding bled into features and he wanted to hate her for it. "John," she began, but he didn't let her finish, disappearing down one of the side alleys before she could get another word out.

He didn't want to hear it.

There was no _moving on_ for him. Whatever _this_ was now wasn't living, it was just him dying more slowly than he wanted. Maybe he should start drinking again; it would help destroy his liver at the very least.

**.**

_He was my North, my South, my East and West, my working week and my Sunday rest_

Alcohol numbed his body, but not his mind, he had been trained to resist the most potent of drugs; alcohol was nothing to him.

He didn't bother eating anymore, eagerly using alcohol as his substitutions. Somewhere, in the back of his mind he could vaguely feel the gnawing pain of his hunger and the horrible taste of thirst, but none of it registered.

He knew he was dying, painfully, slowly.

He knew they were simpler ways, painless, quick. But he didn't deserve such mercy; he had _failed_. Harold was dead because of him, he hadn't fast enough, hadn't been strong enough and the world had lost someone they really couldn't afford to. A man that came along once every few generations.

It should've been Reese; they were plenty of rogue killers out in the world. He was dispensable, he could've been replaced.

He downed another bottle.

Without Finch he was like a dog without a master, directionless and so very, very lost. Like a compass losing its ability to point north, he was utterly useless.

**.**

_My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong_

Reese had known that they would never have forever; they had grown too old, too disillusioned to believe in such fairytales.

They had cherished every moment they had had; every movement, every touch spoke the three words they could never bring themselves to say. Those three words meant little to him, they were tossed around, over-used, he had never wanted nor needed any verbal reassurance; neither was very good at it anyway.

But that didn't make the loss any easier to bear or to accept. They may have _known_ the truth, but knowing did little to prepare him for the reality, for the _pain_.

Reese had thought he had known better, he was wrong.

**.**

_The stars are not wanted now: put out everyone; pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood_

He left the library in a drunken stupor, using the buildings to support his fumbling weight as he stumbled throughout the city, no destination in mind.

So it was only a bout of luck and coincidence (if he had still believed in such things) that he found himself at the lonely, weathered bench under the bridge. His legs felt like rubber beneath him, but he forced them to carry him to the bench by willpower alone, his body groaning in relief as he sat down, the slick cold sinking beneath his clothes, digging cruelly into his flesh, so cold it burned.

That was fine, it was nice to feel something again, Reese mused, tilting his head up to look at the sky.

It was unusually clear tonight; even the stars could be seen despite the pollution corroding the city sky away. The moon hung limply in the sky, small and pale, blurred beneath the invisible cloud of smog that hung indefinitely around the city.

"Harold," he whispered his voice broken and thick. He looked to his left, his drunken mind still expecting Harold to be sitting beside him, but the only thing he found was the empty space that sat gaping and hollow beside him, a bench too big for just one person. "Harold," he repeated to the air, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

_For nothing now can ever come to any good  
_

**.**

* * *

_A/N:_ ...Please don't kill me._  
_


End file.
